


Men of Feeling

by Romantika



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:34:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23590900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romantika/pseuds/Romantika
Summary: Downton Abbey AU - Thomas' encounter with Mr Pamuk in Series 1 turns out rather differently, and becomes a catalyst in Thomas' emotional life. "Ratings": chapter 1 M, chapter 2 E, 3 and 4 G.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Duke of Crowborough, Thomas Barrow/Kemal Pamuk, Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Comments: 22
Kudos: 81





	1. The feeling's mutual

Thomas happened to be outside when the hunt returned, and noticed Lady Mary, her so-fair skin flushed, in whispered conversation with a decidedly exotic-looking gentleman.

 _"That must be Mr Pamuk”_ , he thought to himself, _"very tasty. I shall enjoy getting him into his evening dress … and out of it."_ A little smile caught the edges of his lips. "I wonder ...", he murmured.

He turned back towards the house, towards the hum-drum of serving drinks, dinner, dessert, and coffee, and sighed deeply - but first, there would be a man to organise.

An hour or so later, when tea was done with and pre-dinner drinking was in the offing, the bell rang from Queen Adelaide, the room designated to the Granthams’ foreign visitor. Checking first, in a mirror by the servants' hall, that he was as immaculate as the occasion required, Thomas stole softly upstairs, and knocked at the door.

"Come," came the peremptory reply.

With his face in "servant glacial" mode, Thomas entered the room. Mr Pamuk was standing in front of the fire, in stockinged feet, trousers, and with his shirt tucked in ( _not perfectly_ , noticed Thomas) and buttoned at the front. He was gazing into the large mirror above the fireplace with a somewhat exasperated expression. He turned towards Thomas, holding out the white tie that dangled loosely from his right hand.

"Could you help me with this?" he asked with a wry smile. "I've never been any good with them. In Istanbul, even our strictest dress is a little ... more comfortable, more … relaxed." His eyes flickered for a moment towards Thomas, and he sighed. "However, I must be all formality tonight - wouldn't want to let Evelyn down."

Thomas put the tie down on the bedside table. "Shall I help you with your shoes first, Sir?”

Pamuk sat down in the armchair by the fire. As he knelt down in front of him, the pair of immaculately-polished black shoes in his hand, Thomas glanced up at the Turk, and, smiling a little, asked, “Have you known Mr Napier long, Sir? He is a familiar figure to us all here."

Pamuk's eyes hardened. "Careful, now ... Barrow, isn't it? I bet you _think_ you know why he's here, but it's hardly fitting that you should comment, is it?"

He looked Barrow straight in the eye, but not coldly. Then he smiled, and so did Thomas.

"Of course not, sir", muttered the footman, ducking his head, "my apologies". Thomas smiled again, inwardly - _"most interesting”_ , he thought. He slipped the Turk’s elegant feet into each shoe in turn, tying the laces carefully. As Pamuk stood up, Thomas moved to pick up the white tie. Reaching around Pamuk's neck, he placed it gently around the stiff collar of his evening shirt and tied it into a perfect knot.

"I hope that's not too tight, Sir", he said, with another half smile, “and may I adjust your shirt, please, Sir?”

"As I said, European dress often feels a little restricting to me", replied Pamuk, the tiniest of smirks decorating his full-lipped mouth. Thomas deftly tucked in the shirt so that it draped perfectly over Pamuk’s torso. “There you are, Sir, much better.”

He turned to the wardrobe to retrieve Pamuk's waistcoat and tails, laying them out on the bed. As he did so, he murmured, "If I may say so, Sir, we English are not always so … tight."

Pamuk raised an eyebrow, "Really? You intrigue me. I lived in Berlin a few years ago, I have spent time in Italy, and now I am based in Paris. Therefore you might say that I have some experience of continental ways, indeed of what some might call foreign looseness, even laxity …" He paused, and looked straight at Thomas again, "but never in England ..."

Thomas picked up the waistcoat, the tiniest of smirks on his lips, and then walked round behind the Turk. Helping him into the well-fitting garment, "The buttons on this are exquisite, Sir," he breathed, fastening all but the last.

"Well, thank you, Barrow, some of us foreigners have good taste, you know. They're Russian, my father gave them to me on my eighteenth birthday ... Fabergé."

"I thought as much, Sir … beautiful."

His gaze flicked up towards Pamuk's face, his cool grey eyes gazing deeply into the the other’s almost black ones. Thomas' heart was suddenly beating very fast, and two spots of colour appeared on his pale cheeks. His right hand followed his eyes, and came to rest on Pamuk's shoulder again.

"Why stop there?" smiled the Turk.

"That was not my intention ... Sir," said Thomas boldly.

Pamuk suddenly grabbed Thomas' hand, and kissed his palm as if to take a bite out of it. Thomas stared at him, entranced. "If this is foreign, er, laxity, Sir, I think I like it."

"Oh, shut up, and come here."

Pamuk grabbed the back of Thomas' head with his other hand, and kissed him so crazedly as to wind him almost completely, grinding their hips together the while. Thomas’ immaculate hair was well and truly coming adrift, and the Turk's tongue was everywhere in in the young footman’s' mouth, his lips sucking greedily, their teeth knocking together. Thomas returned his passion wholeheartedly, for all that he could scarcely breathe.

 _"This is better than under a bridge on a cold evening in Thirsk"_ , he thought to himself.

Pamuk suddenly broke away, a feral look on his handsome face, his lips flushed pink.

"Yes, very nice, lovely, in fact", he said, "and you kiss beautifully". He ran his left hand down Thomas' face. The footman sighed, leaning into the caress, and straightening his hair. "Where did you learn to do that?"

"Like I said, Sir," answered Thomas with a smirk, "We're not all so, er, tight in, er, foggy Albion, not even in Yorkshire."

"Evidently not," said Pamuk, with a smile that was almost a leer.

He paused.

"Please help me into my tails."

"Yes, Sir, of course".

First wiping his somewhat battered mouth on his handkerchief, Thomas did so in a moment, smoothing the fabric down over Pamuk's muscular back. Now it was the Turk's turn to lean into the gesture.

"You will be serving at dinner? You will return to undress me later?"

"Yes to both, Sir."

"May I ask for … further services?" he asked quietly, but warmly, again reaching up to stroke Thomas' face.

"That would be my pleasure, Sir."

"Good, very good ... and mine, I assure you, most certainly." His eyes raked Thomas from head to foot. He smiled yet again, a smile that reached those eyes, full of anticipation. "Who would have thought such loveliness could be hiding away up here?" Thomas stared at the floor, very nearly embarrassed. Pamuk walked back towards the fireplace and glanced at himself in the over-mantel mirror.

“As we shall know one another so much better soon, you should call me Kemal,” he murmured. Smiling broadly, he turned to look at Barrow. “In my language, it can mean "perfection" ... you are called Thomas, are you not?”

“Yes, er … Kemal, Thomas is my name. I looked it up once, it's from the Aramaic, meaning "twin" ... though there's only me.” He smiled broadly, and looked wonderingly at the "perfection" that stood before him. "Those buttons are certainly lovely, but they are not the best thing about you, especially not from where I'm standing."

Pamuk turned and wagged a finger at him, chuckling. "That is almost too cheeky, but only almost ... "twin", eh ... I think one of you will be ... perfection." He laughed.

"I think we understand one another, Kemal … Sir.” Pamuk laughed again, Thomas bowed a little bow. "Please ring the bell again when you require my “further services".”

He slipped out of the door, walking on air.

"Not all uptight in foggy Albion, not at all ... not even in Yorkshire," muttered Pamuk, still smiling. "Now let me see how matters lie with Lady Mary. I always was too greedy for my own good."


	2. Ships that pass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Further adventures, late at night and early in the morning. Rating E.

Kemal Pamuk glided down the stairs at precisely the moment when the Dowager Countess swept across the hall. He bowed graciously, and introduced himself, adding,

" ... a great pleasure to meet you, Lady Grantham. Mr Napier told me you would be at dinner tonight."

The Dowager twinkled at him a little frostily, "Did he, indeed, the naughty boy? He shouldn't have, you know."

She pretended to glare, but was still twinkling, and tapped her stick on the carpet, "It _might_ have given you an advantage over me, which no gentleman should ever have over a lady, particularly one to whom he has not been introduced." She paused a moment. "However, it is of no consequence," she continued, " because I already knew that you would be here, Mr Pamuk, and it is _I_ who have the advantage: I knew your father when he was a little boy. His father was Turkish Ambassador in Paris in the 1860s, was he not?"

"Yes, he was, but ... "

"My father's younger brother was a diplomat, First Secretary at the British Embassy there - they were good friends."

"Good heavens", replied Kemal, "another small world."

"A _somewhat_ hackneyed phrase", replied the Dowager, a little archly, "but none the less apposite. Now, come along, one can so easily _freeze_ to death standing here, I need a drink, and you can help jog my memory." She hooked her arm into his and steered him towards the Library.

At dinner, they got along famously, her Ladyship full of anecdotes about her uncle and the ten-year-old Turkish child she remembered from half-a-century ago. Pamuk sat between her and Lady Mary, and found it really difficult to remember his manners and turn to the latter at the appropriate moment. Mary might well have felt neglected, but this very grown up Turkish boy's gracious manner and handsome face, which had so pleased her earlier in the day, forestalled any possibility of a sharp word. Totally captivated by him, she didn't even notice his occasional, oh-so-slightly-too-lingering glances towards Thomas, who glided around the dining-room with utter professionalism, pausing to respond to a cheery word from Mr Napier, who, by half-way through the entrée of roast venison, was himself well into a gentle roasting from the elderly countess. Even the latter's hawk eyes were oblivious to the silent exchanges between the Turk and the self-effacing footman.

Thus the evening passed, typically for Downton, with charm, "light" talk, and little incident. Carson's eyebrows barely quivered, though they threatened to go into orbit when William nearly tripped while carrying a cream-boat at dessert. The young man recovered, however, slightly to Thomas' annoyance, and not long afterwards the ladies "went through", to gossip and drink tea or coffee (though the Dowager often called for a little Green Chartreuse). The gentlemen retired to smoke and drink port, brandy or whisky, and put the world to rights, insofar as the English upper-class had anything to worry about, which, in the Year of Our Lord 1913, was little enough, or so they thought.

As Thomas and William cleared the table of its detritus, Carson checked that the four ornate silver candelabra were placed just so, that the fire was suitably banked, and replaced the floral table centre. The dining-room fell quiet and empty.

When the two footmen arrived at the bottom of the stairs, Carson reappeared as if by magic, "A word, William, if you please ... in my office ..."

William dumped the silver tray covered with used china and glass near the sink, and trudged off shamefacedly. Thomas could not resist a smirk.

"What's tickled your fancy?" said Mrs Patmore.

"Oh, nothing much ... by the way, Mr Pamuk seemed very pleased with that "Suleiman's Pilaff" before the fish course."

"I should bloomin' well 'ope he were", retorted the pink-faced cook. "I were right glad to have thought of it ... haven't cooked that for, ooh, thirty year an' more. Learnt it at my first house – Viscount Pocklington had been in them furrin' parts ... Messy-pot-a-mus-ia, I think it was ..." She scratched her head and looked puzzled.

"Mesopotamia, perhaps, Mrs Patmore," ventured Thomas with another smirk.

She glared at him, "It could have been "Mess-of-pottage-ee-a" for all I care! Now get off with you, there's work to be done in 'ere." She flapped at him with a tea-towel.

Thomas sloped off to the servants’ hall. There lurked Miss O’Brien , some sewing in hand, an almost full cup of tea beside her. She fixed him with her gimlet eye, and quirked an eyebrow.

“You’re full of beans this evening.”

“I may have reason to be.”

“Special reason?”

“Maybe.”

“Why’s that then?”

“That’s for me to know, Miss O’Brien.”

“Oh, come now, Thomas, don’t do all that “coy adolescent” stuff with me. It doesn’t work, and you know it.”

“There’s not much coy about me.”

“You can say that again.” She smiled a little, acid smile, and bit off the end of her sewing thread. “Smoke?”

“I think I could do with one.”

She stood up and headed for the back door, “ … and a ciggie, I daresay, Thomas.”

“You think you’re such a wily old bat … ,” muttered Thomas to himself, as he followed her out.

“I heard that … ”

*****

Twenty minutes later they came back, the reek of nicotine swirling around them. Miss O’Brien’s face would have curdled new milk, but Thomas looked even more pleased with himself. She swept her sewing off the table, and clattered off down the hallway.

 _“I’m getting better at this, I really am,”_ thought Thomas. _“She wheedled and prodded for two whole fags’-length, and still hasn’t the faintest idea what’s up.”_ The very thought had him smoothing the front of his trousers, and with some difficulty. He licked his lips. _“Anyhow, he won’t be ready for a while yet, I daresay. _I_ need some tea now – got to keep me strength up.”_ He smiled wickedly to himself. _“ … I wonder what he likes to do … whatever he wants is fine by me, more than …”_

He made his tea, and sat down with it in the rocking-chair by the fire.

*****

It was nearly midnight before Thomas’ reverie was interrupted by the bell from Queen Adelaide. He started up from a half doze, straightened his livery, and hurried upstairs. 

This time, the answer to his gentle knock was far from peremptory …

“ … uh, huh …”

As Thomas entered a slight movement from the bed caught his eye. Kemal was lounged across the huge four-poster, tail-coat off, waistcoat off, shoes off, and shirt half undone, exposing a mat of chest-hair. He was leaning back on his left elbow against the pillows, and smiling like a cat that’s just got the cream, again. He toyed with a tumbler of brandy.

“There you are … lovely … Thomasss ... the delicious ... sss,” he said, his voice ever-so-slightly-blurred with drink. He gestured to a table by the window, where there was a tray, decanters, glasses. “Want some?”

“Don’t mind if I do.” _“Don’t often get the chance”_ , thought Thomas. _“ … take it while you can, lad … “_ He poured himself a distinctly large one, took a big gulp, and turned back towards the bed, appraising Kemal with hungry eyes. “God, your throat’s sexy when you swallow," murmured the Turk. “Well, don’t just stand there – come, sit … and let’s get you out of all that uniform.”

“Some people like a man in uniform,” answered Thomas cheekily, “I always prefer them out of it.” Kemal snorted a laugh. Thomas put his brandy down on the bedside table, removed his jacket, waistcoat and shoes, placed them all neatly on the low table at the end of the bed, undid his tie and the top two buttons of his shirt, and sat on the bed. He dared to put his hand on Kemal’s leg, stroking the dark cloth.

“Higher … please.”

Thomas ran his right hand slowly up Kemal’s thigh, and heard the man’s breath hitch. Emboldened, he took the glass from Kemal’s right hand, put it on the table, and ran his other hand along the Turk’s right flank, gently massaging the muscles there.

“Oh, that feels so … good, hmmm, oh yes… ,” was the response.

“Anything to help you feel less “tight”, Kemal, after all that talk at dinner. You and the old girl were having a rare old natter.”

“The Dowager, you mean? … She’s extraordinary! Knows what’s what, and no mistake … and “Who’s Who” and the Almanach de Gotha by heart, I should think. She knew more about my family than I do! Some quite racy stuff, too.”

“Nothing about her surprises me anymore. She sees the invisible, hears the inaudible … Gawd knows how, but she does …”

Kemal sniggered, “Well, yes, but … we’re not here to witter on about bejewelled “old girls", are we?” He put a strong hand on Thomas’ chest, pushing him down onto the bed. In a moment his mouth was on Thomas’ throat, then nibbling along the curve of his jaw, his cheeks, kissing his ears, mouth, eyelids, everywhere … “You’re quite a vision, you know that? A vision of jet and ivory … and those lips, I want more of those lips …”

“Happy to oblige.” Thomas lunged upwards, capturing the Turk’s mouth with his own. Tongues, tongues, teeth, tongues. He turned Kemal over on to his back, and they rutted together. Kemal’s hands were roaming, “ ... still too many clothes …”

They both stood up, panting slightly, and, staring at each other, stripped off their remaining garments, eyes flicking up and down. Thomas’ alabaster skin glowed in the firelight, his lightly-muscled body like a classical sculpture, “nothing too much”, his stomach taut, his chest covered in short, black hair, the trail downward thicker, his long cock completely hard, pointing strongly upwards, already pulsing gently. Kemal was a different vision, his darker, somewhat bulkier chest smothered in black curls, his legs hairy and strongly muscled. His cut cock jutted forward, thick and veined. Without taking his eyes from Thomas’ face for a moment, he stepped towards him and they embraced passionately, hands carding through one another's hair, swarming over one another’s backs. They kissed and kissed, straining to open their mouths wider and wider. At last they parted, gasping for air.

Kemal gestured towards the bed, and pulled back the covers. “Shall we?”

“After you … Sir,” answered Thomas with a smile.

For long minutes their bodies writhed together, thrashing and twining, chest-to-chest and cock-to-cock. Then, smiling secretly, Thomas put a finger to Kemal’s lips, and began to kiss a trail down his chest, slowly and gently. He touched the dark nipples, and, encouraged by a sigh from above, tweaked them with his fingers, before continuing his trail of kisses downward, nudging through the dark belly hair with his nose, swirling around the navel with his tongue, and then, diving down further, he lifted Kemal's legs over his shoulders to kiss and nip, and suck, at the soft, dark sacs of his balls.

“Ohhh, that’s so … just…. Uuuhhhh … “

Thomas began to hum quietly, still nipping and kissing the while, and then licked delicately along the underneath of Kemal’s thick shaft. He kissed, licked, and finally sucked the tip, the head, and, with a sudden lunge, the whole, his nose buried deep in Kemal’s crotch hair. Softly, Thomas tensed and untensed the back of his mouth and his throat, and began to suck, slowly and gently, then stronger, deeper, as then let the whole throbbing member slide almost completely from his mouth, only to dive again, all the time humming, humming.

Kemal was sweating and shivering with delight, a fist stuffed in his mouth. “My God,” he gasped, “ … ooohhh … nngk … aaaaahhuuuhh”. His cock was leaking like a tap. Thomas swallowed with untroubled efficiency, sucking, still humming, his fingers still pulling and twisting Kemal’s engorged nipples, as Kemal held on to his head fiercely – not that Thomas needed any encouragement. _“Wow, this is heaven_ ”, he thought.

“Uuuhh, ohhhhh,” groaned Kemal at length. “Now, get back up here, I want to kiss you again.” Thomas released Kemal’s cock with a gentle “pop”, and fixed greedily on his mouth. Tongues, tongues, teeth, tongues, gentle biting and kissing of lips, ears, throats, eyelids, cheeks, foreheads, hair.

Suddenly, Thomas drew back, blushing, his eyes skittering over Kemal’s flushed face.

“What’s wrong?” asked Kemal.

“Nothing … er … I’ve just never been with anyone in quite this way before … nor with anyone quite so … beautiful. “

“Hmf … you are special, too, you know, very special.” He smiled lovingly, and ran a hand through Thomas’ hair, tugging it gently.

Thomas stroked his cheek. “It’s hard to remember that might be true, when you’re just a servant … used to obeying orders … but you really seem to _like_ me.“

“Hah, but of _course_ I do, you lovely, silly boy: you are beautiful, and funny, cheeky and obviously clever, and … “ He paused and sat up in the bed. “Listen …” he stared into the distance, as if remembering, “in the act of love there are no masters, each is the servant of the other.” He glanced back at Thomas, who smiled shyly. “I learnt that some few years ago, from a person I greatly honour, and will hold to it always, whoever I am “with”. In love, in sex, there must be respect from each to each, or there is nothing.” His face was fierce, his eyes glinting.

Thomas’ eyes glistened. “Feel good, and make the other feel good. I like that. I wish more people did,” he added wistfully, gazing adoringly at the Turk’s shadowed face. “Beautiful, lustful, and a philosopher,” he murmured.

“Very lustful at the moment,” said Kemal with a laugh. “Now shut up and come here.”

“You said that before, and look where I ended up.”

For long hours they made love, nothing left unexplored. Kemal’s mouth was as clever and as wicked as Thomas’, who came to know sensations in his nether regions he had never dreamed of, especially deep below, where that Oriental mouth fed insatiably, licking, sucking and gently biting at the delicate flesh till Thomas thought he would die. Then they fucked, slowly, each the other, turn and turn about, riding waves of pleasure like a great sea-storm, till at the last Thomas was impaled on Kemal’s cock, his back arched, another orgasm growing and growing within him, as heat pooled in his belly, his body sheened with sweat, shining like marble in the fire’s dying glow.

He gazed intently at Kemal’s ecstatic face, shuddering to a climax as he squeezed the thick member deep inside him, that spurted time-and-again in response. Kemal groaned aloud, almost shouting, as Thomas’ shed his load all over the Turk's hard, sweat-matted stomach.

Coming down from well beyond cloud nine, Thomas flopped down in the bed beside his lover, scrunching his left hand through Kemal's chest hair.

“Fuck me,” he whispered.

“I just did,” replied Kemal with a smirk.

“Yeah, I noticed ... ”

They lay back, smiling, sated.

A minute passed … two. Their breathing quietened.

Kemal turned to Thomas, reached for his face, and kissed him softly.

“Listen, again; may I tell you something more? You are lovely, beautiful, loving, strong. All this night, you have been here, for me. I have been here, for you. For now, that is all that matters.”

Thomas sighed - he hardly knew where to look, so glanced away, up towards the window, where the first lightening of the sky could be seen.

His eyes were downcast. “People don't talk to me like that", he said, with a little tremble in his voice. "it's always been wham, bam, up against a wall or down a dark alley, maybe a rough _thank 'ee_ , and that's yer lot."

"You deserve better, far, far better, " murmured Kemal, shaking his head. 

Thomas turned back to him. "Thank you. You have been so ... kind, so good to me, for me, made me feel good to be me, for the first time in ... oh, longer than I can remember. Thank you for that, my friend. Beautiful for me, always.” He sighed, and brushed his fingers across Kemal's chest once more. “BUT, _I _always have work to do. I’d better get back soon. I think I’d better have a bath, too, or everything’s going to ache all day.”__

____

“Everything? Maybe some “bits” more than others,” muttered Kemal with a grin. Thomas smacked him softly on the arm. “Beautiful, loving, and, thankfully, _very_ naughty,” he said, smiling.

____

He sighed again, then got out of bed, and walked over to look out of the window, his pale body almost ghostly in the dawn light. “It’s a beautiful place is Downton, especially at this time of day - one of the few good things about having to be up so early.”

____

“Must you go?” asked Kemal, patting the pillow ruefully.

____

“Yes, I must, or Carson will have me guts fer garters.”

____

“The grumpy butler with the wayward eyebrows? I wouldn’t want be on his wrong side.”

____

“That’s always been my problem. He prefers William.”

____

“The pasty-faced one who nearly dropped the cream-boat? Yes, some of us _do_ notice these things … well, no accounting for taste …”

____

“The only taste Carson has is for being as strict and as pompous as is humanly possible. He didn’t ‘arf give William a pasting for that near-miss, I can tell you.”

____

“He’ll survive.”

____

“We all do, somehow,” said Thomas a little sadly, as he started to put his clothes back on.

____

Kemal thought for a moment, and patted the bedclothes. “Just come and sit here for a second.” Thomas did as he was bidden, still half-dressed. Stark naked, Kemal sat up and swung his legs to the side of the bed. He put an arm around Thomas’ shoulders. “For the last time, I promise, I am going to tell you something: we will always have last night, in here,” he tapped his temple, “and how we loved each other then, and ...”, he kissed Thomas on the mouth, so gently, “how we love each other, now. Maybe, in the way of this world, we will never see each other again, but we will always have that.”

____

A tear trickled down each of Thomas’ cheeks, and, just for once, he didn’t think, _“that’s easy for you to say”_. He nodded, stood up, finished dressing, and, bending down to the still-sitting Kemal, returned that soft kiss.

____

“Thank you, Kemal, that means a lot, a very great deal. You are a lovely person, a kind man, and a wonderful lover. I shall always remember. Thank you … for everything.”

____

With a last caress of that beautiful, dusky face, he turned to the mirror, checked that all was as immaculate as the occasion required, and silently slipped out of the door.

____

One night older, perhaps a little wiser, and certainly a lot happier, he was still walking on air.

____

Not for one moment did Kemal remember that he had once considered Lady Mary to be rather beautiful, even attractive.

____

*****

____

Later that day, Mr Napier and Mr Pamuk left Downton. As Thomas helped load their luggage into the waiting car, his face did not betray for one eye-blink what he felt at their leaving. He even managed to keep his yawns hidden from Carson, and, much more importantly, from Miss “I-want-to-know-what’s-been-going-on” Sarah O’Brien. This was one secret of his he was determined she should never know.

____

*****

____

Some weeks later Carson came into the servant’s hall at breakfast, as usual bearing the morning’s post. He had already filleted out various bills, but there remained two letters and a smallish, thin, rectangular parcel. He handed them out, “A letter for you, Daisy; one for you, Mrs Hughes, and this … ,“ he held out the parcel, his eyebrows well up into their top storey, “is for you, Thomas.”

____

“Thank you, Mr Carson,” said Thomas, with a surprised smile.

____

“Well, look who’s won the jackpot,” muttered Miss O’Brien. “What’s that, then, Thomas?” she asked aloud.

____

“That’s for me to know, Miss O’Brien,” came the almost-too-quick reply.

____

Thomas secreted the little package in his inside breast pocket, and spread some marmalade on his toast as if nothing had happened. His mind was in a whirl. He sedulously avoided Miss O’Brien’s gaze for the rest of the meal, and her presence for the rest of the day.

____

It was a long day: coffee in the library, furniture to move, luncheon, an errand in the village, tea in the library, pre-dinner drinks, dinner, clearing, tidying, sore feet, an aching back. It was, as was so often the case, almost midnight when he at last reached the haven of his room. Using the flame of the candle he brought up with him, as he did each night, he lit the lamp beside his bed, trimming the wick to give a warm glow. Having felt the little package in his pocket close to his heart all day, he removed it from his jacket, and placed it on his bedside table. He hung up his livery with his usual care, stripped down to his underclothes, and put on his pyjamas, dressing-gown and slippers as quickly as possible – the room was cold.

____

He sat on his bed. He reached for the parcel, his fingers itching to open it. He turned it over and over. “Recommandé” was stamped in red in one corner – “I think that means Registered, or Insured ... something like that, anyway”, he said to himself. The several stamps seemed to be French, the postmark “Paris, 8ème”. _“Well, well, well … I wonder”_. He removed the string from around the package, and carefully opened one end. There was another cardboard envelope inside, with Russian stamps this time, and inside that a little black leather box, embossed on the top, in gold: “T.B.” He smiled. He opened the box: inside were a pair of enamelled gold cufflinks, a sailing-boat with a brown hull and a white sail at one end, and a tiny bunch of blue flowers at the other, joined by a delicate chain. Inside the lid he could see some Russian letters, to which he paid little attention, for there was a tiny note nestled there as well. He opened it eagerly: “For the Memory. K.P.”

____

Almost in tears, he put down the little piece of paper. Then it suddenly struck him: _“Ships that pass in the night … pale and dark … “_ he turned the cufflinks over … _“ and, of course … these are forget-me-nots.”_

____

One hand to his mouth, he sobbed quietly, though he felt so very happy. “I never shall forget”, he murmured, “never. Thank you …”

____

His dreams that night were the sweetest he had known for months … no, for years.

____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Who's Who" is a publication listing "notable" people in Britain, who are still alive at the time of (yearly) publication.  
> The "Almanach de Gotha" is book of ancient lineage, first published in 1763, and listing all the noble families of Europe (and beyond), their histories and present representatives.


	3. A strange meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summer 1923: in ten years much has changed, for Thomas, and for the world, but the past has a way of recurring - or does it?

Summer 1923: The London Season

In the decade after his encounter with Mr Pamuk, much changed for Thomas, and for the world. He grew up a lot, but showed even more a “difficult”, scheming side the while, which led to his being generally far from well-liked at Downton, indeed under suspicion for dishonesty and theft. Avoiding probable dismissal by enlisting soon after the outbreak of World War One, he had a much more harrowing war experience than he had planned, the horrors he witnessed doing little to assuage his “contra mundi” outlook on life.

His heart, having been bruised by the Duke of Crowborough before this story began, was indeed greatly repaired by Kemal Pamuk’s gentle kindness, but no-one can live on the memories of one night, however powerful and meaningful they may have been. Thomas’ emotional world crashed again at the avoidable and tragic suicide of Edward Courtenay, with whom he had fallen precipitately in love, while his obsessive fixation on the new footman, Jimmy Kent, resulted in a foolish indiscretion, one kiss that nearly landed him in prison.

It was little wonder, then, that, ten years on, he was still a person full of bitterness and sharp edges, desperate for love and unable to find it, in a country that generally regarded his “kind” as worse than vermin. Having always taken his chances where he could, he is looking on the coming journey “down South” of the entire Downton population as just another such – he was already thinking of excuses to absent himself from Grantham House of an evening, on the prowl for an encounter, a merely physical release, different from, but no more significant than, any of the other fleeting “one-nighters” (or less) the last ten years have brought him, in the less salubrious parts of Thirsk, York, or, on one occasion, the Liverpool Docks. He needs these, like any human being might, but is already jaundiced enough about his lot in life not to expect any surprises, especially good ones, and firmly believes that emotional attachment is not for him: or so he thinks … and regrets.

[A further detail: unlike in canon, the entire Downton population debouch to London at the same time.]

*****

The “express” from York to King’s Cross shuddered to a halt yet again, to exasperated sighs from various carriages, much flapping of hats and newspapers and, in first-class at least, ladies’ fans.

In third-class, it was simply hot, very, very hot. The Downton “below stairs” contingent was occupying four entire carriages, all full, all squashed, no room for all their luggage, half-eaten packs of sandwiches clutched in sweaty hands, and bottles of lemonade wedged in various places. It was all a sticky-fingered, crumby, perspiring mess.

“Good Lord above, now what?” exclaimed Carson from his seat by the door. He was decidedly pink about the gills. “If that ticket inspector shows his face again before London, I’ll give him a piece of my mind!”

“Now, now, Mr Carson”, came the soothing brogue of Mrs Hughes, "it’s hardly his fault.”

“I know that, but this really is too bad – we should be at Grantham House by now; there is a LOT of unpacking, a lot of organising, a lot of … well, I don’t need to tell you, do I? There’s a lot of everything … dear, dear, dear … “

“ … and being in a flap about all that won’t help, will it?” came the reply. A “ _hmf_ ” was all she got from Carson.

“Now let’s all take it as easy as we can, shall we?” she added, glancing across the carriage at the decidedly flustered face of the Downton cook. “Mrs Patmore, would the wicker basket on your knees conceal any more bottles of pop, by any chance? I think we could all do with some, and, under the circumstances, I think passing around a bottle or two might be allowed.” Mrs P. was only too glad to comply, but Carson’s eyebrows shot heavenwards at the very idea of “necking” from a bottle of anything. He flapped his hands and shook his head vehemently. “No, no … er, thank you”, he muttered. “Suit yourself, Mr Carson”, said Mrs Hughes, “but don’t blame me if you're parched by Peterborough!”

That produced barely suppressed sniggers from everyone else in the carriage, with the exception of Thomas, who was slouched at the other end of the bench-seat from Carson, his hat over his eyes, fast asleep – his mouth was open, and he was snoring gently. Jimmy was sitting opposite him, and when Daisy Mason passed the bottle to him, and he’d taken the requisite “slurp”, he nudged Thomas with his foot. “Come on, now, Mr Barrow, drinkies … “

“Hmm … wha … er … ,“ replied the half-recumbent Barrow. “Oh … sorry,” he mumbled, sitting up, still drowsy, “I was having such a lovely dream … Paris in the moonlight … er, thank you, Jimmy, very welcome …” He took a long swig from the bottle and glanced out of the window.

“Paris be damned,” he muttered.

“ _Language_ …” exclaimed Carson.

“Well, I know, Mr Carson, but where the flamin’ ‘eck _are_ we?”

“We left Grantham at full speed approximately …” Carson scooped his fob-watch out of his waistcoat pocket, “er, thirteen minutes’ ago. Therefore, in my estimation, we are presently overlooking a cornfield somewhere on the borders of Lincolnshire and Rutland. We are very late, fifty-one minutes’ late leaving our last timetable stop.” His last “p” popped like a wine cork, and he sniffed disgustedly.

“Blimey, it’s ’ot in ‘ere”, muttered Jimmy. “Gi’ ‘s the bottle.”

Thomas smacked his hand away with a smile. “Naughty James, leave some for everyone else.” He handed the two-thirds-empty bottle back to Mrs Patmore.

A heavy silence fell. Carson glared at his watch, Daisy bit her nails, and Mrs P mopped her brow for the umpteenth time with an increasingly fetid handkerchief. Suddenly, with a shriek of steam and a rather worrying lurch, the train staggered into life again, and did its best to hurtle onward.

It later transpired that there had been a cow on the line … in two places.

With another delay at Watford Junction, the train was even later arriving in London. By the time all was unloaded, put into vans commissioned for the occasion, plus six taxis for the Crawleys and two charabancs for the staff, the whole "caboodle" was a good hour-and-a-half behind schedule, Carson’s chivvying notwithstanding. He was getting redder in the face by the minute, and the Earl noticed his distress. As he was about to speed off in the first taxi, he rolled down the passenger window, and, beckoning to the agitated butler, said,

“Carson, Lady Grantham and I are most concerned that you should not worry yourself so much about everything. Circumstances beyond our control, and all that, hm?”

“Yes, my Lord, but still …”

“The staff at the house know we’re due, and we ordered a buffet supper ahead, upstairs and down - all will be well, I feel sure. Take it easy, please, we’re all a bit over-heated after that dreadful journey.”

“First-class was a scrum, too,” drawled Lady Mary’s voice from the opposite seat.

“Very well, my Lord, and thank you.” Carson tipped his hat. “We should be ready to leave in a very few minutes.”

“Excellent, Carson, and thank _you_ ,” said Lady Grantham from a seat beside her husband. “I know poor Mrs Bute is ill, but I imagine the staff there can rustle up some tea for us … we’ll all survive, and we’ll see you later.”

She and the Earl nodded to Carson, and the parade of taxis eased away from the rank.

Carson did calm down, a little, but was still in enough of a bate by the time they arrived at the house to be very on edge, and liable to take a bite out of practically any member of staff who came within range. Speeding down somewhat unfamiliar corridors in the basement of Grantham House, as well as up and down the back stairs, everyone did their utmost to keep out of his way. They all had to wait quite a while for their own tea, but, at half-past five, two large pots arrived on the dining table in the rather cramped servants’ hall, heroically accompanied by Mrs Patmore’s best almond biscuits.

They all sat down gratefully, and Daisy poured. When Carson entered, all stood as was customary. He was carrying a lot of letters. “These are all for upstairs,” he said, waving the wodge in his left hand, “but this,” he added, holding out the large cream envelope in his right, “this is for you, Thomas – delivered by _hand_.”

“For _me_ , Mr Carson? Well, well … er, thank you.” He secreted it in his breast pocket, unable to suppress a little smile as he sat down again.

“That looks right posh, Thomas”, said Daisy over her tea-pot.

“I didn’t know you ‘ad posh friends in London, Thomas,” added Jimmy, with a smirk.

“Neither did I,” came the reply. “ _I know that handwriting … from somewhere,_ ” he thought.

“That’s quite enough of that,” boomed Carson. “Drink up your tea, everyone, and … James, don’t eat all the biscuits, _if_ you please. I haven’t had one myself yet. Pass the plate …”

Jimmy did so, a yearning look on his face.

“Now,” continued the butler. “There is a simple buffet supper for all tonight. Foreseeing that everyone would be tired after that appalling journey, her Ladyship has requested it be served early, at seven, and that the family should help themselves to any drinks beforehand. I will leave that to you, Thomas, and James, to organise …" With the hint of a glance at those two particular gentlemen, he continued, “at least we should all be able to get to bed at a decent time. If anything further is required, I shall be in my office.“ Taking up his tea, and a second biscuit, he rumbled off down the corridor.

A pause.

“Now, everyone, back to it,” said Mrs Hughes, with a slightly weary smile.

Scuttling about at top speed with trays of bottles, decanters, and glasses, Thomas didn’t have a second to look at his letter. Something about it nagged and nagged at his brain, and he was determined to open it in private. A remark from Jimmy gave him the chance he needed:

“Lor’, Thomas, this gin bottle’s nearly empty.”

“Don’t worry, Jimmy, I know where we keep the Gordon’s. You go and deal with the ice-buckets, and I’ll fetch another one.”

Leaning against a wall in the store-room, he retrieved the mystery envelope, and tore it open.

_“I knew you’d be coming to town. I am at the Cavour every evening till late. Much has happened, and it would be good to see you. P”_

There was a duke’s coronet embossed at the head of the notepaper.

“Philip, you cheeky, ducal … _bugger_ ”, breathed Thomas, “after all this time …”

He stuffed the letter back in its envelope, and put the whole back in his pocket, frowning. But then his face changed, he started to chuckle quietly, and was soon laughing uproariously, “Why the hell _not_?” he yelled at the wine-racks, almost hysterical.

There was a knock at the door. “Are you OK, Thomas?” came Jimmy’s worried voice. “Where’s the gin?”

“Oh yeah, sorry, coming,” spluttered Thomas. He wiped his mouth on his hand. “Why not indeed?” he said again, grabbing the bottle, and wrenching open the door, “Here you are, Jimmy … catch!”

*****

“Simple” supper or not, it was still gone nine before the servants’ hall resounded to the clatter of cutlery on dinner plates, as portions of cooked ham, cold chicken legs, and various salads disappeared rapidly down the staff’s hungry throats, followed by Mrs Patmore’s best fruit salad.

After dinner, further gallons of tea were forthcoming. Most people did disappear for an early night, but, as was their wont, Thomas and Jimmy stayed behind playing cards. It was soon the latter’s turn to yawn. Having lost three hands of rummy in double-quick time, he ran a hand exasperatedly through his slightly tattered-looking hair. “Yer did well, Thomas, on that ruddy train, ‘avin’ a long snooze. I’m whacked, but you’re buzzin’ like a bee.”

Thomas beamed at him, “Maybe I am.”

“Did you read your mysterious missive?”

“From my “posh” friend, you mean? I did.”

“Well?”

“That’s for me to know, Jimmy.” He tapped the side of his nose with a finger. “When you’re a big boy, I’ll tell you all about it,” he added with a wink.

Jimmy leered at him lubriciously. “Now, come off it, Thomas, yer can tell me _anything_.”

“I wouldn’t want to offend your delicate, juvenile sensibilities …”

The clock struck ten.

“Sod that, but I’m too tired to argue. See you in the morning, then.”

“P’raps.”

“Blimey …” Jimmy shook his head, yawned ostentatiously, and tottered off.

*****

Thomas waited exactly three minutes, then smacked the pack of cards down on the table.

“Now, baby James,” he muttered, “I hope you’re in yer baby cot, ‘cos I’m right behind yer.”

He shot up the stairs to the attic, not without thinking, “ _If things had been different, you’d be comin’ with me. Well … tweren’t to be._ ”

Once in his room, he switched on the light, tore off his livery, grabbed his one-and-only summer suit (light grey cotton twill), a clean white shirt, and a dark blue silk tie from the single wardrobe, put his black shoes back on, and slipped as silently as possible back down to the basement. From an earlier visit to Grantham House, he knew there was a spare key to the servants’ door hidden behind the clock in the servants’ hall. He deftly slipped it into his pocket, checked his hair in the mirror over the clock, nodded contentedly at his reflection, “ _Still fit for a duke, I think,_ ” let himself out of the door, and hurried up the service stairs to the street. “The Cavour it is”, he muttered, “and the night is yet young.”

It was ten minutes’ brisk walk, and Thomas definitely knew the way. Under the streetlights of the West End a thousand faces flitted past his eye, and more than several were those, men and women, who stared at him as he sped by, his face curiously lit from within. “ _Why do I feel so bloody eager, after the way he treated me … any port in a storm … maybe ... might be fun, at least, and I could do with some o’ that_.” His face set, and he saw before him the Cavour’s sign-board, lit by two flambards. “ _Flames without, and fairly flaming within, if I remember rightly …_ “

He entered the dimly-lit room, which was barely a quarter full, and glanced at this watch. “10.25, might be a bit early for him.” He sauntered to the bar. The barman, who looked about sixteen, smiled sweetly. “Yes, sir, what will it be?” “Gin, please, a double, lots of ice … go easy on the tonic … “

“That’ll be three-and-tuppence, sir.”

Thomas reached into his pocket, but suddenly felt a hand on his. “No, I’ll get this,” said a once-familiar voice in his ear. Thomas turned towards it, and there was Philip, smiling slightly nervously, creased wrinkles visible at the corners of his eyes, a hint of grey at his temples. Thomas could smell alcohol on his breath. Not letting go of Thomas’ hand, Philip turned to the barman,

“Put it on my tab, Larry, there’s a love, and get me one too.”

“Right you are, Your Grace.”

“No secrets here, are there?” said Thomas.

“Why should there be?” replied Philip, staring into Thomas’ eyes. He lifted Thomas’ hand to his lips, and kissed it. “I get so bored with hiding ... Shall we sit down?”

“ _Some of us have no bloody option, your Grace,_” thought Thomas, as Philip led him to a candle-lit table by a heavily-curtained window.

They sat. Their drinks arrived. Nothing was said.

Thomas was determined not to feel awkward, not to break the silence.

After staring at his gin-and-tonic for what seemed to him like a very long time, Philip suddenly spoke,

“You might be wondering why I wrote to you.”

“I might be …”

Another silence.

“Look”, continued Philip, “a long time has passed, the world is a very different place, we are both a decade older, I … “

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

Philip stared at his drink again. Thomas took a long sip from his.

“Listen, what I’m trying to say is,” Philip looked up, glaring, but then his eyes softened. Suddenly, he was almost in tears. “What I’m trying to say is, I’m … sorry.”

“Good God”, murmured Thomas, leaning back in his chair.

“Yes, I know it’s been years, and I might at least have written something to you, to try to explain, but … I’m sorry … for the way I behaved, for the way I treated you, led you on, for the lies I told you. It was wrong, I took advantage of you, I used my … privilege, my power, if you like, to screw you around. I think I’ve grown up a little since then … I hope so … enough to know that anyway.”

He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, reached for his drink, took a long gulp, and stared into space.

Thomas just stared at him, his mouth in a little pout. At last he sighed, took a very deep breath, and spoke, “Bloody hell, Philip … “

The Duke looked into his eyes, his lower lip trembling a little.

“I mean it, Thomas, every single word.”

“I think … I believe you … you bastard.”

Philip reached for Thomas’ hand across the table. “Yes, I deserve that.”

Thomas looked away. “I think you do.”

Philip squeezed Thomas’ hand. “How have you been?” he whispered.

Thomas jerked his hand away. “Well there was a war, remember. I was injured. You see this,” he waved his partially-gloved hand in the air, and then banged it on the table. Through gritted teeth, he ploughed on, “Like a bloody fool I fell in love twice: the first one killed himself, I nearly got arrested for the second. I’ve had a few good fucks and a few bad ones, I still get up at six every morning, and I work me arse off. You know how it is ... or maybe you don’t.”

”HOW HAVE YOU BEEN?” he hissed, his grey eyes blazing.

Philip drew back, looking abashed. He took a very deep breath, and sighed heavily.

“It’s not been good. The estate is still ruined. My mother still nags me now and again about getting a wife, though I think she might have realised … I drink too much, I’m lonely, I … “

“Join the bloody club …”

“I … know … it doesn’t get any easier … I … “

Another silence fell. Thomas sipped his drink. The look on his face would have blunted a razor.

“We’re quite a pair, you and I,” he said with a slightly mocking tone, ”and there are thousands like us. Look at this place: definitely for respectable queers only, no rough trade, a couple of chorus boys giggling with the barman is about as racy as it gets. Well, fuck the world is what I say … it forces this on us, places like this, and far worse, where we might go to find another lonely soul to “screw around”.”

“You’ve grown up too, haven’t you, dear Thomas?”

Philip reached across the table again, but for Thomas’ face this time. Thomas did not flinch away.

“Why “dear”?” he murmured.

Philip, his eyes still bright, stroked his cheek, “Dear in my mind … dear … for the memory.”

Something flickered in Thomas’ eyes, “I haven’t heard that phrase for a very long time. I thought you’d wanted to forget … what we had.”

“So did I, but I was wrong, one should never forget. It can make a man sad, bitter.”

“Well, that’s true enough, I am both quite a lot of the time. It’s not easy, is it? … The second one I fell for, the one who nearly had me put away, I still have to work with him every day. I saved him from a beating once as well … you see this little scar on my lip? … We’re “friends” now … and, no, about that I am not bitter, he’s a good kid, beautiful … “

“So are you, Thomas, still so beautiful.”

“Yer not looking so bad yerself.” “ _Not true, you’ve aged,” …_ he thought.

”Thirty-five next birthday … half way …”

“Mebbe, mebbe not.” “ _Three-quarters, more like_.”

He cleared his throat. “Are you “up” for the season?”

“Hardly. We need to sell Crowborough House as well as close up in the country - so much debt.”

“And then what?”

“My mother has money of her own, from her mother’s family in Scotland. She'll retire to a little dower house up there - she has enough to live on in some comfort, and to pay me a small allowance. My two sisters are safely married, thank God, so all I need to do is find somewhere cheap to go.”

“Where?”

“France perhaps. Thanks to having a French governess when I was little, I speak the language well. I could survive there, maybe find something, someone …” He leaned his head on his hands and stared into the candle flame.

Thomas finished his drink, and stood up. They looked at each other. “Better be going, Your Grace. It’s late, and I have work tomorrow.”

“Oh, I thought we might … I thought you could … “

“No, Philip, that wouldn’t be good for either of us.”

He drew the duke up from his chair, held him in his arms, and kissed him, very gently, on both cheeks. Philip clung to him a little, but then sat down a bit heavily: he really was a trifle tipsy.

“Goodnight, Philip … good-bye, Philip. Thanks for the drink. Take care of yourself.”

The Duke glanced up at him again, his eyes soft again, almost child-like. He seemed suddenly terribly sad and rather old.

“Farewell, Thomas … no, it is good-bye, I think.” He sighed deeply.

Tomas slipped away, out of the door, back into the lights and the traffic. He too felt sad, but not for himself. “ _Poor Philip, where will you really go?_ ” he wondered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Cavour was a well-known "gay" bar, before that word existing in its modern meaning, a "respectable establishment" in the West End.  
> This chapter has turned out very differently from my original idea of it.


	4. Paris in the spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1933: another decade has passed, with further greater changes for Thomas. At last he has found love.

Spring 1933: in the last ten years, Thomas has both hit rock bottom and the heights of joy. The unsuccessful "Choose Your Own Path" therapy threw him into suicidal depths of despair, from which he was rescued by friends he didn't know he had, and, by a strange quirk of fate and of Carson's genes, he found himself at last Butler of Downton Abbey, with status, security, and increasing respect, both downstairs and up.

The visit of the King and Queen in 1927 brought the most unexpected of joys into his life: Richard Ellis, "Second Dresser" to His Majesty. Thomas and Richard begin a long-distance and necessarily somewhat furtive relationship, brief snatches of time to express their love for each other, separated by long periods when talking by telephone and exchanging letters is their only means of communication. Richard, himself a Yorkshireman, often says that he would one day like to return to the north, and the opportunity for him to do so and gain freedom from a life of service presents itself when, in 1929, an old family friend, "Uncle Freddy", dies, leaving his gentlemen's tailors and outfitters business in York to his favourite "nephew". Richard tells Thomas "he was like us", the entire business being manned by gentlemen (except for girls doing some of the sewing in the workshop), and producing goods of the highest quality: "F. Denman, Tailor and Outfitter to the Nobility and Gentry", as the sign above the shop proudly stated (including the present Earl of Grantham and his father before him). Of course, he asks Thomas whether he would like to join him in running the business, expanding into the hire of formal dress, and perhaps into providing valet and footman services for grand dinners in the city and surrounding countryside. The shop comes with one huge advantage: there is a flat above it, two bedrooms, utterly private. Thomas jumps at the chance, and the business prospers, no-one in the city batting an eyelid at the continued "all maleness" of the establishment, since "'twas ever thus".

After a year, Richard dares to change the name of the business to "Denman and Ellis", and by 1933, Richard and Thomas think they have earned a holiday. Rather daringly, they decide to dredge up their schoolboy French and spend a few days in Paris in the week after Easter, which that year fell late, in mid-April.

*****

Recommended by a friend in York who had travelled a good deal more than they had, Richard and Thomas had taken a room in a little hotel , the "Lion d'Or", close to the Luxembourg Gardens. They were amazed to find their room only had a double bed, but Monsieur le Patron didn't turn a hair, and neither did the clerk at Reception, so they saw no need to worry. On their first night, they got little sleep, and neither did the young married couple next door. Typical of French hotels, the walls were paper thin, but nobody seemed to care about that either. The plumbing was also - interesting - very loud and shrill, and with little pressure to speak of, though a shower was such a novelty to them both that they were too busy enjoying splashing one another with such hot water as did arrive, to notice the lack of it.

Prinked and shaved, and smart in spring jackets and trousers, it was warm enough for them to breakfast in the courtyard, though that did raise an eyebrow at Reception, and the waiters clearly thought them quite mad. Croissants and coffee, proper buckets of the latter with hot milk, were quite a novelty.

"Paris in the spring, eh," said Richard as they rose from the table. "My Baedeker informs me that the gardens over there are particularly beautiful at this time of year. Shall we take a stroll?"

"I think we'd better. Those croissant thingies are sitting on my stomach," replied Thomas, patting his front.

It was certainly a fabulous morning, and the sun beat down on the gravelled paths of the gardens, its warmth a harbinger of summer's heat. Several gardeners were busily planting bedding in symmetrical patterns in the beds. Richard and Thomas sauntered by, and the latter couldn't help a nudging Richard in the ribs: "Look at 'im, bending down over there. Blimey, what a bum!"

"Shhh, careful, you don't know who might be listening."

"Er, Richard, my love, there's not many as speak zee Eengleesh 'ere, though ... now are there, hm?"

Both collapsed in giggles, to the astonishment of all the gardeners within forty feet.

Both were at once astonished by an English voice calling out to them from a nearby bench.

"Good Lord, that's a voice I could never forget. Thomas Barrow, I presume."

Thomas and Richard both turned towards the sound, their mouths open like stranded fish. On the bench were sitting a man a little older than either of them, his longish dark hair framing a still handsome face. Beside him sat an astonishingly beautiful woman, also about forty, elegantly dressed in the latest French fashion, her jet-black hair coiffed beneath a narrow-brimmed white hat. The gentleman took the lady's hand, and they rose to their feet.

As they approached, recognition suddenly dawned on Thomas' face.

"Kemal ... Kemal Pamuk ... but it can't be?"

"Why not?" said Kemal, beaming broadly.

He rushed across to Thomas, and enveloped him in a huge hug, kissing him on both cheeks. Thomas turned pink to the tips of his ears. They stood back from each other laughing, Thomas shaking his head, while Kemal laughed out loud. Richard looked on bemused, the lady looked on, greatly amused.

"Excuse me," said Kemal, when he could catch his breath. "Oh dear, I am sorry, my darling, " he said, turning to his companion, "this is a little strange, but I have not seen this man for ... " he thought for a moment, "almost exactly twenty years."

"I understand, though, why you might remember him," answered the lady, in heavily accented English. "He is still very ... _bello_ ... very ... 'andsome."

Thomas blushed even more.

"Indeed so ... but, let me do the introductions properly: Maria, this is my old … friend, Thomas Barrow. Thomas, my wife, the Contessa Maria Peretti-Vannuccini."

How do you do," mumbled Thomas, his eyes flicking between them, his confusion obvious.

The Contessa smiled warmly, and extended her hand. Thomas shook it, a little dazedly. " _Enchantée, Monsieur_ ," said the lady.

She turned to Richard, "and who is this charming _gentiluomo_? My dear," she turned to her husband, "now I understand why you like England so much! Are all the gentlemen there so ... byootifool?"

"Richard Ellis, _Madame_ , at your service," said Richard, who was also blushing like a rose, but still had the self-possession to bow and take the lady's hand, kissing the air just above it, in true continental style. He turned to Kemal. "Thomas and I are partners in business."

Maria was observing the two Englishman narrowly. "I see … ," she said, her eyes flickered between them appraisingly, "But not only in business, I think," she went on, a devilish grin on her face, " ... _n'est-ce pas_? ... hmmm?".

She linked her arm into Richard's and walked him off alongside another one of the flower beds. Both Richard and Thomas wanted to go and hide under a petunia. "Come along, Kemal,” said Maria over her shoulder, “Bring Signore Tommaso. You must 'ave a lot to talk about."

Kemal looked after her adoringly. "My wife is an amazing woman."

Thomas was still standing there dumbstruck. "How would she know ... how does she ... I mean, what?"

"Oh, don't worry, I'm used to it, even if you aren't. She knows everything about me, about my ... er, versatility, though that is now, mainly, in the past.”

“I see, but … “

“How can I explain this to you?”

“You don’t owe me any explanation.”

Kemal looked at him, suddenly very serious. “It’s not a question of debt, Thomas, but … I can love a man …”

“I remember … ”

“So do I,” replied Kemal, again smiling broadly; he put a hand on Thomas' arm, pausing for thought, “ … but I can also love a woman, and I do love Maria, very much.”

“I can see that … ”

“We met on a hunting party in Italy. I had met her incredibly beautiful brother at a reception at the Italian Embassy here, just after the end of the war. We talked for hours, and found out we had many things in common, not least a love of hunting. The party was at their estate, he invited me, I met Maria, and … here we are.”

Thomas’ mouth quirked at the corners into a sardonic smile, and he raised an eyebrow. “Her brother, was he … er, did you?”

“Sleep with him? Oh, yes, several times. He was quite something … but with Maria, it was very different, very crazy, very deep. Actually, I can’t explain it, it just is very special. I am very lucky.” He had a faraway look in his eyes, as he gazed after her retreating figure. “You see, nothing fazes her, absolutely NOTHING. The family is Sicilian, nobility going back centuries, wealthy, once very powerful. Incidentally, her great-uncle Mauro was a great friend of Baron von Gloeden, and I know you've heard of him. We have an album of his original photographs at home. I love leaving it lying about open to shock our cleaning woman. She dusts it with such ... er, discretion, that not a feather gets within a yard of any of the … young gentlemen’s, er … bits."

That did make Thomas laugh. "I think we'd better not stand around here though, or your lady wife will have made off with my ... "

"Gentleman husband? ..." Kemal linked his arm through Thomas', and they strolled off after their respective partners.

*****

For over an hour, they walked and talked, sometimes all four together, sometimes two-by-two, getting to know a lot about one another. Kemal's family were quite close relatives of the last Ottoman Sultan, so, with the collapse of the Empire at the end of the war, and the proclamation of the republic, had very much fallen from favour. Fortunately, his grandfather, whilst Turkish Ambassador in Paris, had had the good sense to buy an apartment off the Avenue Wagram (one of the grandest of Paris's boulevards), where Kemal and his wife now lived, along with Kemal's agèd mother, and their two children, Giovanni Mehmet, aged twelve, and Deniz Lucia, ten. Grandfather Pamuk had also invested heavily in French coal mines and steel works, which meant they were well off, even by Parisian standards.

At a little after eleven o'clock, they found themselves near a little café kiosk, and sat down for a rest.

" _Dio mio_ ," exclaimed Maria, pulling off an elegant shoe, "these may be absolutely the latest thing, but they are, as I think you say, keelleeng me!" She took off her other shoe and threw it in the air. Both she and Richard collapsed with mirth. "Oh, I need _caffè_ ", she continued, "an _espresso_ for me, darling, and some Badoit. What will you have, Signor Riccardo?" She rolled the last "r" a lot, causing him to giggle again. "Oh … the same, please, I think, thank you." "Thomas, what will you take?" asked Kemal. "Another big, milky one, please." "Excellent." A waiter hovered nearby. " _Trois cafés, un grand crème, et une grande bouteille de Badoit, s'il vous plaît_ ," said the Turk in faultless French. " _Oui, monsieur_ ," replied the waiter, and whizzed off. He returned quickly with a trayful of drinks and glasses.

“Now, _signori_ ,” said Maria, knocking back her little black coffee in one swift gulp. “I ‘ave something more to tell you.” She pointed at Thomas and Richard. “Our son, Giovanni, is coming to school in Eengland. To a Catholic school, up in your Yorrk-sheer.”

“Yes, he will go to Ampleforth in September,” said Kemal.

“We will visit eemm there, of course, continued the Contessa, “and we weel come to see you in your _établissement_ in York.”

Richard and Thomas looked delighted. “It would be an honour,” said Richard, “… and a great pleasure; we will take you to tea at Betty’s,” added his smiling lover.

“Ooh, the Eengleesh afternoon tea, I love eet,” squealed Maria.

“I think I have one of our cards somewhere,” added Thomas, fishing for his wallet. “Yes, here you are.”

“Denman and Elleece, Tailors and Outfitters … aha … Thomas Barrow, Esq. Valet Services and Waiting Staff for all Occasions. Very good, very … _spécial_.”

“We do our best, Maria,” said Thomas, modestly. “A lot of the big houses and estates have closed up since the war, and there are a lot of people, well-trained valets and footmen, glad of the work, though it is only piece work, without security.”

“Yes, Monsieur Thomas, it is ‘ard for us all when the world changes.”

“Yet sometimes it changes for the better”, said Kemal. “That awful war saw the end of the world I had been brought up in, but for other people so many good things have come about. There must be no regret, no looking back.”

“ … and now we women can vote,” added the Contessa, “in some countries at least. But look at what is ‘appening now, with this Eetler in Germany and that pig, Mussolini, in my beautiful Eetalia, crashing about like an ugly _ippopotamo_ … ach, _orribile_!” She drank half a glass of water in one go. “ _Allora_ … but now, gentlemen, we must leave you. Duty calls: our daughter Deniz has her ballet class at noon, and then I have a fitting for a new summer dress at three. Darling, we must go, _e presto_.” Grimacing a little, she squeezed back into her shoes, and sprang to her feet. She kissed Thomas and Richard roundly on both cheeks. “Eet ‘as been a great pleasure, _signori_ , to meet such a _bel uomo_ from my husband’s past, and the _bel uomo_ who is that man’s future.” She tilted her head, regarding them closely, “ _Arrivederci_ , _signori_ , till we meet again.” She took her husband’s hand. “Come, my love, say your farewells.”

Kemal beamed at the English pair. “I cannot get over this happy chance. It has been quite wonderful ... ” He reached into an outside pocket of his jacket. “Here is my own card. Our apartment is large. Please stay with us if you are ever in Paris again … and there is a little _castello_ outside Taormina – you would be so welcome there.” Maria nodded her agreement.

“Thank you, a thousand times,” said Thomas. Kemal embraced him once more, with more kisses - and the same for Richard. Kemal took his wife’s hand again - they turned away, and walked off in the sunshine.

Thomas couldn’t speak, his eyes were full of tears. Richard gazed at him, understanding everything. “Come, my love, let’s go this way,” he said gently.

*****

They had a wonderful day, dined at “Polidor”, which was still full of poets, or at least people who thought they were poets, and walked by the Seine under the moonlight. It was gone midnight when they returned to their hotel. The yawning receptionist was very glad to see them, handing over their room-key with a sleepy “ _Bonne nuit, messieurs_.”

In bed, Thomas lay with his head on Richard’s warm chest, just drinking in the feel of the man he loved. Richard was very quiet, stroking Thomas’ hair.

“You know those very grand cufflinks,” murmured Thomas, “the gold ones with the boats and the forget-me-nots?”

“The “special” ones you wear only on Christmas Day and on our birthdays every year? Those?”

“Yes. Kemal gave them to me.”

“Did he now?” answered Richard, very quietly. He paused, holding his breath. “I am not surprised. They’re beautiful. He’s beautiful.”

Thomas pushed himself up on one arm, a flicker of worry on his face. In the light of the bedside lamp, he could see Richard’s face, serene, carefree, smiling. Thomas gazed into his eyes for long moments, and smiled as well.

“You’re beautiful, my love. Beautiful for me, for ever.”

“But you’ll never forget him … why should you?” Richard cupped Thomas’ face in his hands and drew him back down. He kissed him so tenderly, on his lips, on his cheeks, on his eyes, on the tip of his nose.

“That’s true, but he was in my past. You are my future.”

They slept, happy, always.


End file.
